


what concrete should endure

by the_ragnarok



Series: the only one in my skin [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Crying, Cybersex, Dildos, Knotting, M/M, Rape Roleplay, Trans Jonathan Sims, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23715874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: Martin gets triggered during a scene. Jon has guilt.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: the only one in my skin [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686532
Comments: 23
Kudos: 447





	what concrete should endure

**Author's Note:**

> As usual many thanks to mx_carter for handholding and beta!!

The blankets make a cosy nest around Jon as he lies on his side, staring avidly at his laptop. On his screen he sees Martin, squirming nicely in his desk chair. The angle doesn't let Jon see the new vibrating dildo buried in Martin's hole, but that doesn't really matter, not compared to Martin's _face_.

It's contorted in a grimace of ecstacy, tears streaming down his cheek. *Imagine me licking your tears off,* Jon writes to him.

Martin squints at his phone. He giggles; a dear, sweet little sound. "You're getting predictable," he says, fondly.

Jon smiles at his screen. *Oh? Is that a challenge?*

"Fuck, you know what? Yeah, it is. Go on, show me something I haven't--" Martin's words are cut off by a moan. "Seen yet," he finishes.

Alright. What, then? Jon considers all the depraved scenarios he runs through his head as he showers, as he waits to fall asleep, in the tube next to a load of unsuspecting strangers. He never used to think about sex, or even kink, this much; Martin is something of an inspiration.

(For the longest time, Jon hadn't realized he didn't like sex. He thought everyone must be like this, enjoying the idea of it more than the reality, doing it solely for their partners' reactions. Realizing this wasn't the case was a fairly startling idea, and one he didn't love dwelling on.)

He rifles through fantasies. Golden showers? Better not risk it without talking it out beforehand, though he suspects Martin would be amenable. Not too much pain, so scarification was right out. What worked? Humiliation especially, dehumanization, some genderplay...

The idea really does feel like a light bulb turning on above his head. *The werewolf band captures you,* he types.

"So far not exactly new," Martin says, with laughter in his eyes.

*(I'm going somewhere with this, give me a second,)* Jon types, rolling his eyes fondly at the screen. *They carry you like you weigh nothing, and snap and growl at one another in a language you don't understand.*

Martin nods, mostly still; only the chair's tiny squeaks betray that he's still fucking himself on the toy in miniscule thrusts.

*Then they stop, and before you, you see a wooden box. "Pretty toy," one of them tells you. "We keep." And they shove you in that box, and close the lid.*

Martin blinks. A little furrow appears between his eyebrows.

Jon, still riding a torrent of thoughts, writes, *The box has two holes, in the front where your mouth is and in the back. The box is small, just big enough for you to be on your hands and knees.*

Now Martin begins to shiver. Emboldened, Jon continues. *Through the hole in the front comes one of their cocks. The box isn't large enough for you to get away from it, and it paints your face with precome.* Martin's mouth falls open in a little gasp. *In the back, you feel the hot intrusion of another cock in your hole. Which one?*

It takes Martin a minute to respond. "My, my front."

What language Martin prefers for his genitals changes by the hour, as far as Jon can determine. He tries to be careful. *It fills up your front hole, bigger than anything you've ever had in there, and you've taken some sizable things, haven't you?*

"Yes," Martin whispers. He sounds far away. Lost.

*When the cock in the front has had enough of playing, someone bangs on the box and growls. "You suck or be sorry." What do you do?*

"I suck it." Blotches of color appear in Martin's cheeks.

That's not a response Jon remembers him having; he stares, fascinated. Then, not to shirk his duty mid-scene, writes, *Both cocks fuck into you, leaving you a sobbing, drooling mess. And sopping wet to boot, aren't you?*

Martin closes his eyes. "Yes." His voice quivers.

Distant alarm bells start ringing in Jon's head. But surely Martin would speak up if something was wrong, wouldn't he? Jon doesn't want to be accused of coddling him again. *They push their knots into you, one after another, until you're helpless against coming around that huge thing inside you. "Milk it good," one of them growls.*

The chair's squeaks pick up a little bit. Nice.

*And then both of them are done,* Jon writes, mentally rolling up his sleeves for the denouement. *They roughly pull out of you, their come seeping out of your holes. They laugh and bang on the box again. "Sleep good, pretty toy!" they yell, and they leave you there.*

All the color drains out of Martin's face. His eyes go wide. He hunches and hugs himself and starts crying.

Jon freezes, stunned, staring at him: Martin's crying is utterly different to anything he's done before; he's making choked little noises like he doesn't want anyone to hear him, squinches his eyes tight like he doesn't want the tears to come out.

It's enough to make Jon speak out loud. "Martin? Are you alright?"

For a moment, Martin doesn't speak, still making those awful hurt sounds. Then he shakes his head, shakes it harder and harder in denial of something Jon doesn't understand.

Jon's earlier fascination dies an ignominious death. He stands up. "What do you need? I could come over. Or I could," _hang up_ , he almost says, sure as ever that the best way to improve a social situation is remove himself from it.

Martin broke at _They leave you there,_ though. Maybe offering to cut connection isn't the best response. Instead, Jon says, inadequately, "I could talk you through it online, if that's better."

Martin waves his hand. Jon isn't sure what he's trying to communicate. He abruptly stands up and leaves the room, taking the toy in his hand; Jon hears the distant sound of running water, and then Martin is back. He watches Martin's face as he types, *idk. dont wanna be alone.*

"I'm with you," Jon says immediately. "Online, in person, whatever you need. Just tell me."

He sees tears welling in Martin's eyes. *pls come here,* he writes. Then his face contorts into another silent cry. Jon's heart twists painfully. *u dont have to.*

_Like hell I don't,_ Jon thinks viciously, but he's too busy adding his phone to the chat to actually say anything except, "Turn off the video. I'll take a taxi and we can keep talking until I'm there."

*thnk u.* The words hang small and miserable on the screen, shooting Jon straight in the heart. _Thank you_ , indeed.

* * *

"I'm sorry," Martin says, for the eleventh time since Jon has arrived. He's been keeping count.

Jon ignores the words and puts a mug of tea on the table in front of Martin, eyeing him critically. They put Martin's chest away already, and he's on the sofa in pants and a t-shirt. Jon sits gingerly next to him and spreads his arm out. He feels like a complete fool, like Martin would be right to spit in his face and shove him away.

What Martin actually does, though, is look at Jon, burrow under the proffered arm, and burst into tears again while clinging to him with considerable strength. Tentatively, Jon pets Martin's soft auburn hair and bows to kiss the top of his head. How Jon feels about putting his face in close proximity to other people's bodies varies widely, but right now he needs to offer Martin any type of comfort he can think of.

"You've done nothing wrong," Jon says helplessly. He's not great at reassurances but he knows that much.

Martin pulls away and blows his nose with the tissues Jon has arranged. "I mean. Sorry for making such a production, I guess."

Jon stares at him. "You're allowed to have negative reactions." He winces at the harshness of his own tone.

Martin, miraculously, doesn't seem to mind. Instead, he clings to Jon yet again. "I guess. But it's so..."

"Unexpected?"

" _Stupid,_ " Martin says, with a vehemence that catches Jon by surprise. "I mean, God, what am I even freaking out about?"

Jon isn't sure how to diplomatically say that he has no clue whatsoever. So he says, "I have no clue whatsoever," because he prefers clarity over diplomacy any day of the week. "Except - something about being alone, I suppose?"

Martin shakes his head. The ghost of a rueful smile appears on his face. "Abandonment issues, huh. No clue where I could have caught those." The bitter sarcasm sits oddly on his voice. It softens a bit when he says, "Also I have a touch of claustrophobia, so that didn't help."

Jon flinches. It's his turn to say, "I'm sorry." He wishes, not for the first time, he could sound like he means the words.

"You couldn't have known. I should have said something. This is all my fault."

If there's one thing Jon is clear on, "This is absolutely none of your fault. You had a bad experience because I didn't pay enough attention, and I'm sorry. I really am." Because the warning signs were all there, weren't they? All of Martin's abnormal responses, which Jon had attributed to enjoyment. Hah.

Of all the reactions Martin could have had, Jon doesn't expect him to pull away, blink at him and say, "You realize this isn't your fault either, right?"

Jon stares at him. "No, I'm rather sure it is." 

The mulish set of Martin's jaw isn't promising. "What, because of your mind reading powers? Honestly, did you know I was upset?"

That's the issue, isn't it? "I suspected," Jon says stiffly. "I should have asked if you were okay."

Martin sighs. "You know what they say about hindsight, Jon. I asked you to try something new, you did, it didn't work out. That happens."

Jon would like to point out that it more than _didn't work out_ , but the more pressing concern is, "You're still crying. Let's not make it about me."

Martin's eyes narrow at him. "Doms deserve aftercare as well," he points out. "Says so in all the fancy kink literature you've had me read."

They're hardly fancy, but Jon isn't in a mood to argue this right now. "I hurt you. I need to focus on helping you feel better and not doing it again. The rest is immaterial."

Martin sits up and says, heated, "The rest is pretty bloody material if you ask me. I'm not going to sit here and watch you beat yourself up over an accident. That's not going to make me feel _better_." 

Jon cringes. "I'm sorry." Even his best attempts always seem to lead him down this road, where he hurts people in ways he doesn't intend; where he doesn't understand how it happened or how to keep it from happening again.

"Oh, Jon," Martin sighs. He comes close again, and the scent of him is a comfort, as is the soft warmth of his body. "Alright. I think we've established how not to repeat this, yes?"

Jon considers. "No small enclosed spaces," he says. "And no leaving you alone, even in a fantasy."

"You know," Martin says, thoughtfully, "I might not even mind the claustrophobia if I'm being paid attention to because of it? Does that make any sense?"

It doesn't, but, "It doesn't have to, so long as it's good for you."

"Like pain," Martin says. "I don't care for it in and of itself, but the way it makes you focus on me - I love that. I love that you want to hurt me because then you won't ignore me." He laughs, a watery sound. "Christ, I'm pathetic."

If he's pathetic, what does that make Jon? "I don't have to hurt you to pay attention to you."

Martin lets out an exasperated sigh. "Jon. I _know_. I want you to; that's what I was just _saying_. I love how single minded you get, how my, my responses just get you going harder. It feels good. It feels like I'm real to you, like you see me and you really like what you see."

"That's an understatement," Jon murmurs. 

Martin giggles and squeezes him in a hug. "See?" Then the giggles stop, and he says, "You know what would make me feel better?"

Something about his tone makes Jon wary. But if he can help at all... "What?"

"I'm not going to feel good unless I know you're alright, too," Martin says. "If you want me to be okay, I need you to be okay as well."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah? Not blaming yourself for how you've hurt me?" Martin gives him a shrewd look. "From here, it kind of looks like you still think it's your fault." 

"Because it _is_ ," Jon says, and regrets it immediately. "Sorry. Didn't mean to snap."

Martin settles himself more comfortably against Jon. "I'm not going to argue with you," he says. "I don't think I could convince you, and I don't want you to defend that stance. But please know that I don't blame you. The moment you realized something was wrong, you bent over backwards to make it better. You're a good person, and a good boyfriend."

Jon opens his mouth.

Martin glowers at him. "If you say one word about my standards, so help me..."

Jon closes his mouth. 

Martin relaxes against him. "Good," he says. 

Jon's still not sure what to do, but at least Martin seems to have stopped crying. "It's late," he says. "Finish your tea and go to sleep."

Martin parts from him for long enough to lift and drain his mug. He darts a shy glance at Jon. "Come sleep with me?" He says. "I mean, only if you want to. If you're doing it to try and make me feel better, please don't."

"I do," Jon says quietly. "I want to."

In bed, Martin is all lush softness. Jon rests his head on Martin's shoulder and lets out a satisfied sigh almost despite himself. 

"What?" Martin asks, amused. 

Jon shrugs. "You're very comfortable to lie on."

Martin snorts. "Being fat is good for that, at least."

Jon, daring, runs a hand down Martin's thigh. "Nicely padded," he argues. Echoing Martin's earlier statement, "I'm not going to argue with you about your body image. But I like your body."

Drowsy, Martin murmurs, "Yeah? Well, I like your everything." He lays a finger on Jon's lips. "Not a word about my standards, remember. How about we stop putting ourselves down and sleep?"

"That's acceptable," Jon says, and closes his eyes. It sounds marvellous.


End file.
